


We Have To Run Away. Now.

by sleeplessflower



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pedophilia TW, abuse cw, as the story goes on, f-slur, making this up as i go alone, self harm cw, uhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:52:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessflower/pseuds/sleeplessflower
Summary: Richie feels as if his life's declining.His mom's a drunk, he's scared of his dad, he hates himself.God forbid his dad find out about Eddie and him.You know what sounds good right about now? Running away.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> the similarities between me an richie tozier grow with every day  
> so i came across [ this post ](http://asewerclowntriedtosuckmydick.tumblr.com/post/165937615660/gazebo-party-the-hero-of-queens-well-i-was%E2%80%9D) and was like wow lets add gays in there huh.  
> anyway richie runs away with eddie because its the eighties and yup.  
> 

_ “Shut up.” _

_ “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Einstein?” _

_ “Shut up! Just shut up, Richie.” _

_ “Alright, shut up Richie.” _

_ “Shut up Richie.” _

Shut up. Shut it. Shut your fucking mouth.

Richie takes off his glasses, rubs his face. He rubs his eyes and takes a breath. His throat feels tight and his fingers itch, begging to find their space on his arms, to return to where they always are. If he concentrates, he can hear the TV from where he is. Faintly, but sure. He tries to focus on that, tries to take his mind away from everything else, from the thoughts berating him. He knows it isn’t true, knows it isn’t true, but it feels so true, so real. It’s so fucking easy to doubt himself, so easy to tell himself they mean it. He places his glasses down on the bed in front of him, looks at his blurry, shaky hands, wipes his face again. Trying not to cry is the hardest part. What does he have to cry about? He’s doing fine.

There’s the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, a car door being slammed shut, and Richie’s hands clam up. He wipes his face, makes sure he’s not crying, puts his glasses on, tries to look like he’s doing something.

The heavy footsteps move down the hall, and Richie tries to look like he’s doing something, tries to not flinch at the sound of the footsteps by his door. They pass. Richie lets out the breath he’s been holding in. How long until his dad comes into his room? His mind swims. It feels like routine, he feels trapped, he feels trapped. His chest constricts and he taps his fingers along the pages of the book he’s pretending to read, tries to focus on the words, tries to do anything besides what he’s doing currently.

The footsteps com back, as they always do, back to Richie’s door. His dad doesn’t knock before coming in. He steps in, and Richie tries not to look like he flinches.

All of Richie’s friends -- all his enemies, everyone -- will remember him as loudmouthed, rude, always speaking out of turn. He’s always the one to have the first word. And the last. And all the words in between. He’ll always be foulmouth Tozier. He’ll always be the first to be told to sit outside, to keep watch, to shut up. 

He can’t even bear to look at his dad, still pretends to read. His dad’s hands shift where they are on his hips, and even out of the corner of his eye, Richie catches it.

“Richie.”

“Y-uh-yeah?” he always beats himself up after conversations with his dad. He always fucking stutters. Who is he, Bill? How pathetic can he get? He’s the trashmouth, goddamnit. He’s never stuttered a word in his life. Or, at least, he won’t admit to.

His dad walks in, sits on his bed right next to him. Richie’s chest heats up like it’s on fire, his chest constricting around his heart.    
”You know,” he begins, plucking the book from Richie’s hands, putting it aside. “I was talking to Eddie’s mother today, in line at the pharmacy.” His voice is flat, giving Richie no gauge of his mood. “And she told me the strangest thing.”

“R-Really?” Richie’s looking at his hands. They’re beginning to feel kind of cold, kind of numb. It’s familiar. He tries not to let him know, tries to slow his breathing, but it’s impossible not to see the quick rise and fall of his chest.

“Yeah,” his dad continues. “she, uh, she told me some boys at school spreading rumours about you.” and Richie doesn’t respond, because he knows this isn’t going to end well. He can see where this is going, and he’s already clamming up. His dad doesn’t wait for a response. “She told me that the boys at school were saying that Eddie Kapsbrak and Richie Tozier were fags.” He pauses, chuffing. “Can you imagine that?”

Richie feels his face heat up, feels his hands get impossibly wet. He can practically feel his dad staring at him, and he’s frozen. How did Eddie’s mom find out? Eddie was so careful. Who could’ve told them? His mind races. That doesn’t matter now. What matters now is coming up with an excuse. He can feel his throat, tight and weirdly hot, all the way down to his stomach. It’s empty, but he’s sure if he eats anything he’s going to throw up. It roils and burns him from the inside, stinging, just like the rest of his insides, impossibly tight.

“But that’s not true, is it Rich?” His dad asks and he hesitates a moment before shaking his head. “Good,” He continues. “’Cause if it was, I wouldn’t know what to do with you.” he ruffles Richie’s hair, and his hand is just touch too heavy, the action just a touch too rough.  _   
_ _ One of the Tozier’s a drunk, we can’t have a fag, too.  _ Richie’s mind snaps back. In an alternative universe, he would’ve said it. But he’s sure in that alternative universe he’d be threatened and locked in his room, so, really, which is better?

With that, he’s getting up, giving Richie one last look, -- something akin to disgust, hate bubbling underneath, because, of course, Richie’s not a human, he’s a fucking  _ object  _ \-- and closing his bedroom door.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit.  _ Is all Richie can think, all he can say as his father’s footsteps trail off. He leans against the headboard and taps his head back, banging against it. There’s no way he can’t tell Eddie. He has to see him.  _ This is all my fault _ . Chimes in the back of his mind.  _ Of course, it was something I did, someone probably saw us, I can’t fucking believe I’d be so stupid. Fucking trashmouth Tozier, being sloppy again. Not fucking news, exactly, is it? _ _   
_ Suddenly, he’s holding back tears, trying not to cry. His hands cover his eyes, fingers threading through his hair, finding strands, pulling. He tugs and tugs, keeping his mouth clamped shut. He can’t weep, he shouldn’t be crying. It’s his fault, anyway. It’s always his fucking fault. 

His mind draws back to Eddie. Fuck, secretly sweet Kaspbrak who he doesn’t even deserve.


	2. one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie decides the best thing to do is tell Eddie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had to look up "verb for using inhaler" so there's that  
> anyyywayyyy im basically projecting myself onto richie wholly now but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ whatre u gonna do.

He’s hardly thinking at this point, just allowing his base instincts to drive him to do what he’s thinking of doing.  _ This is so dumb.  _ He thinks, and yeah, it fucking is. He second guesses himself several times before it hits midnight. He’s constantly checking his clock, looking in his backpack, checking the time again. His heart still throbs fast, spurring him on, reminding him of what, of  _ why. _ And it’s been hours, hours since his dad talked to him, but he’s still repeating things in his head, still beating himself up. He checks the time one more time, and creaks open his bedroom door.

He walks slowly down the hall. The TV is still on, but his mom’s passed out, asleep with the remote in her hand. He passes by her and into the kitchen, checking the fridge like there’s going to be something in there he can eat. He looks behind himself as he opens the fridge, watching for his dad. Nothing. Okay.   
Walking back down the hall, Richie looks toward his parent’s room. The door’s closed. His heart thumps in his chest. Once, twice, three times. He stands, staring at the door like a frozen chicken. His hands clench into fists.

He moves back into his room, nods to himself. Now or never. Now or never.

Richie swears he has a heart attack putting on his shoes, that his heart literally stops when he opens the front screen door, into the dark. He closes it, as quietly as he can. His next steps are calculated, footsteps almost impossible to hear. His chest is like a vice around his lungs, and it loosens ever-so-slightly when he steps onto grass. His next steps are slightly faster as he walks to the sidewalk, and the moment his shoes hit pavement his mind chimes in  _ this is it  _ and his legs pick up.

He’s running, like a maniac, to Eddie’s house. He runs most of the way there, breath whistling out of him, footfalls unsure, kind of clumsy. The darkness surrounding him is freezing, and he can feel his lips crack. He’s blinking past the breeze, his eyes drying out like when he sits in the car with the window open.  _ You should be scared,  _ he thinks, because, that thing is out there, it’s still alive.    
“Joke’s on you, asshole,” He says to himself, into the night air. “I’m already fuckin’ scared.”

To be truthful, Richie’s been scared since he was seven. He’s been scared of his dad, of the dicks at school, of Eddie’s mom, of Bill’s mom, of Stanley’s dad, of everyone’s parents, of his own parent’s, of his own damn self. Since he found out what being scared scared was, he’s been scared, so nice fucking try.

 

He isn’t sure when he gets to Eddie’s house.    
At first, he isn’t even sure that it  _ is  _ Eddie’s house. Everything’s blanketed in a thick swathe of darkness, only the few lit streetlamps aiding with his vision. His calves burn, straining against him as he rounds Eddie’s house, walking in the coarse grass until he’s outside Eddie’s window.

Richie bends down, feels around for a rock. He picks one up; it’s fairly small, but it’ll do. He pegs it at the window.   
Richie always felt weird about the word ‘boyfriend’. He always felt weird about ‘friend’ and ‘relative’ and every other placeholder. Why can’t you just call people by their name?   
He pegs another rock.   
He can’t remember who said it -- was it Bill? Or Ben? -- but someone had said it. Boyfriends. Eddie had gone redder than a tomato. Richie had gone lightly pale. He knew they were okay with it, but people verbalising it felt like he was going to get in trouble.

He pegs another rock, a bigger one. It makes a pretty significant sound.   
He remembers feeling weird -- even Stan, secretive as he was, didn’t mind being called Bill’s boyfriend. So what was his fucking problem?   
He takes a few moments, gathering as many stones as he can, balling them into his fist, throwing them with extra force.

Why did he hate that word? He didn’t hate Eddie. He knew that probably wasn’t it. He wasn’t ashamed.   
He has another fistful of rocks when Eddie’s window slides open. He looks up. His muscles are still strung tight, but something in him relaxes when he sees Eddie. His hair is a mess, and he yawns before he speaks.

 

“Wh-Richie?” He rubs his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” Richie pauses. He hasn’t spoken in, god, like, an hour. His throat feels dry. “Come in you idiot, it’s cold as hell out there. C’mon, I’ll unlock the front door. “ Richie freezes for a moment. His chest feels like it’s thawing. He nods, moving around the moment Eddie’s head disappears from the window.

Eddie’s already at the door when Richie comes around. He looks tired. Richie steps in, and Eddie’s quick to take his hand. He leads him, quietly, up to the kitchen. Not even bothering to turn the light on, he opens up the fridge, getting out the milk. He reaches over to a cabinet to his right, plucking out two glasses. He fills both with milk.    
The moment Eddie hands Richie the glass, he’s gulping it down. It’s cold, and he can feel it as it goes down his throat, as it settles in his stomach. Eddie watches as Richie finishes off and places the glass in the sink, then takes his glass and Richie up to his room.

Eddie opens the door as quietly as he can, wincing when his mother calls out;

“What are you doing up so late, Eddie-bear?” And Richie winces a little. Eddie looks to Richie, and hesitates.

“Just getting some fresh air and milk, mommy!” Eddie calls back. “I couldn’t sleep!” 

“Okay.” His mom calls back, and Eddie smiles like he’s getting away with murder. Richie smiles back. “Good-night baby.”

“ ‘Night mommy!” Eddie calls back.

They creep quietly through the doorway, closing the door behind them just as quiet. Eddie sets his glass down on his nightstand, flicking on his lamp. He sits on his bed, letting his legs hang off the side. He runs a hand through his hair, and Richie toes off his shoes, sitting down next to him.

“What’s up, dude?” Eddie asks, and his voice is soft. His expression is gentle, and Richie doesn’t even get a word out, not even a syllable before he starts crying. It’s as if all the tears he’s ever shed have built up behind his eyes, and suddenly his eyes have decided that now would be a good time to let them spill. He curls in on himself, cries into his glasses, the tears building up and dropping off the edge of the frames. He takes off his glasses, hides his eyes. He feels Eddie blanketing over him, his arms wrapped awkwardly around his back. He shushing Richie quietly, apologising. All Richie can hear is;  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. _

It feels like he’ll never stop crying. He coughs for a moment, hiccuping on his sobs.

“Ed-Eddie.” his voice is warbled, gummed up with mucus and tears. 

“What?” Eddie asks.

“I-It’s my dad.” Richie uncurls a little, lets Eddie worm his arms around. “He-” He hiccups for a moment, trying to breathe. “-he knows. He-he told me.”    
Eddie’s gone stiff. He’s pale, definitely paler than usual, and he doesn’t move.

“Wha-Whadda you mean?” His voice is soft, fast.

“He said your mom told h-him that,” Richie swallows back a glob of mucus in his throat. “P-people said we were-” He stops, cutting himself, off, trying not to look at Eddie’s face. With his glasses off, he can’t see much, but he seems shaken.

“My mom didn’t say anything.” Eddie responds. He shifts closer. “Are you sure he said that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He stops, just for a moment. He stops moving, stops breathing, the only indicator time hasn’t stopped being his still-flowing tears.

“Fuck.” Eddie’s breathing has picked up, his chest rising and falling irregularly fast. He scrambles to open his nightstand, getting out his inhaler and puffing it in quick succession. 

“Fuck, Richie, what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Richie runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smash that mf like for more sad gay boys


	3. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short n sweet, richie's dad comes an tries to get him back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for pedophilia mention !  
> im sorry i got this out so slow and its so short but i assure u theres going to be more soon !

It's almost 3am when Richie rushes out of Eddie’s room, mere seconds from vomiting all over the floor. Eddie looks up from the book he's been reading, plucking his headphones off. He steps hesitantly into the hall. His mom hasn't come out to yell at him, and his heart stops for a moment as he's looking at her door. There's still no sound, and Eddie lets the breath rush out of him.

 

When he reaches Richie, the boy’s hunched over the toilet – thriving with germs, Eddie distantly notes – his face stuck in the bowl. Eddie doesn't hear any retching, but he's not really that close.

 

“Richie..?” Eddie lets his voice trail off. Richie’s shoulders perk up. “Do.. are you gonna be okay?”

Richie shifts for a moment, his hands almost spasming where they're gripping the seat. He lifts his head, slowly, cautious. His hand darts out and grips at the toilet paper roll, tearing off a strip with a harsh tug, leaving the paper to continue to fall. His hand disappears in front of him, his other hand raising to flush.

When Richie turns he's practically white, and it sets a deep weight in Eddie’s stomach.

“Are you sick?” Eddie steps closer, cautiously, and lays a hand on Richie’s back.

“I’m not sick.” He closes the seat of the toilet, leaning his head against it. 

“Oh, that’s good.” Eddie sits down, sure he’s not going to catch anything. “What’s going on?”

Richie looks Eddie in the eyes. There’s something in there, beyond the glaze over them, something hiding in deep. He looks down, at Richie’s hand, and slowly slides his own over so they touch. His hand is cold.

“I saw the fuckin’ clown again.” Richie says. He takes Eddie’s hand and squeezes it. “I don’t- I don’t wanna go back to sleep.”

And Eddie thinks  _ oh,  _ he thinks  _ I’m so sorry.  _ Because he forgot, because he’d pushed that back to forget. He watches Richie’s face, feels his cold hand snaking up his arm. He feels his heart thump in sympathy. He wants to wrap himself around Richie, wants to never let him go, to protect him from his dad, from the bullies, from that goddamned clown. He kisses Richie, a small peck on the side of his head and sits, on the floor of his bathroom. He breathes, looks at the floor, at the white tiles, hears Richie’s soft sobs.

 

*

 

Eddie finally coaxes Richie back to bed and they both squeeze onto Eddie’s single, tangled together in the sheets and in each other. They’re only just closing their eyes as the sun comes up, and Eddie knows that his mother won’t both him unless she absolutely has to. And on a summer Saturday, it’s not very likely.

Eddie can’t really say he gets a lot of sleep. Right now he’s laying next to Richie, a hand on his shoulder. Richie’s face is screwed tight, like he’s scared. It has been for a while. His breathing’s erratic, and he’s whispering something, soft enough that Eddie can’t hear. It feels as if Eddie’s heart has been clamped by a vice. It’s like it’s going to explode if Richie says one more thing, makes one more sound.

_ Okay,  _ Eddie thinks.  _ Fuck letting him sleep.  _ He takes hold of Richie’s shoulders the best he can and shakes, slowly, trying to get Richie to wake.

 

There’s a loud, angry rapping on the front door, and it makes Eddie jump. Richie opens his eyes in an instant and sits up.

 

“Richard Tozier!” It’s a man’s voice, booming and raspy, the voice of a chain smoker. Eddie freezes. He remembers the voice, recognises it from somewhere.

_ You’re real pretty for a boy, ya’know that? _

Eddie whips his head to look at Richie, who’s grabbed his glasses off of Eddie’s nightstand and is currently trying to find which corner of the room looks best to sink into. He’s got the tips of his fingers in his mouth, chewing on his nails. His eyes are wide, glossy and wet with tears.

“I know you’re in there, you little brat!” the voice comes through again, loud and angry. Eddie’s eyes flick to his bedroom door.

“Is that your dad?” Eddie can hardly hear his own voice. Richie nods, slowly. He knows he remembers that fucking voice. Eddie can almost smell the smoke on his breath, the sweat on his skin, can almost feel the ghost of a hand on his hip, on his waist, on the back of his neck, teasing the hair. He seizes, and he wipes at his skin, at his clothes as if there’s a hundred tiny spiders crawling along where Wentworth Tozier once touched a thirteen-year-old boy.

A door inside the house swings open, slaps the wall with the force with which it’s been opened. Eddie hears footsteps, hears the front door being opened, hears his mother’s shrill voice.

“Just what the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?!” she yells, immediately hushing her tone afterward. Eddie can only just catch parts of what she’s saying. “It’s nine-thirty! What do you think you’re going to accomplish --  and yelling like that?” 

And Richie’s dad is saying something in response, his voice even lower. So low Eddie can’t catch a thing.

“... And if he is?” Eddie feels a throb of safety at his mother’s tone, but quickly remembers what Richie said, what his father had told him. “Listen, I don’t care if -- that does not give you the right to -- in the  _ fucking  _ morning!”

Eddie looks at Richie, at his big eyes, at his quivering lips. He doesn’t want to move right now -- he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. It’s as if all his muscles have turned to stone.

“I want to see my fucking son, Sonia.” His dad’s voice has picked up again, and a bolt of anxiety shoots through Eddie. “Get out here, Richie!” He yells, and is immediately shushed by Eddie’s mom. “I know you’re doing things with that girly boy!” 

Eddie fumbles for his inhaler, opening his nightstand with haste. His chest is burning, his throat getting tighter by the second. He puffs a few times, his breath whistling back into his chest.

_ Anyone ever tell you you got a kinda girly face, Eddie? _

That seems to be the breaking point for Sondia Kasprak. She yells something obscene, slamming the door with a mighty bang. Eddie can hear her footsteps soon after, and hears the knock on his bedroom door. He still can’t find it in himself to move.

“Come in.” He says, just loud enough for her to hear. She opens the door, steps in. Her eyes immediately dart to where Richie’s sitting in the corner of the room ,and her face softens. She sits down next to where Eddie is on the bed, and he moves into her arms. She strokes his hair, and for a moment, Eddie feels alright.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you about Richie being here, mommy.” He says, and she tuts.

“It’s okay, Eddie-bear.” She says, but her tone says it isn’t “Just tell me next time.” she adds, and Eddie nods. He shifts, moving so he can look at Richie. His hands are at his arms now, toying with the hem of his shirtsleeve, scratching at his skin. He doesn’t say anything.

“Mommy,” Eddie starts, and he can almost see the fear surface in Richie’s eyes. “Rich.. he told me that you said something to Mr. Tozier.” He looks down, toys with his nails.

“Something about what?” She asks, and her voice is losing her softness.

“A-About people making fun of me.” Eddie pauses. “And Richie.” he can feel her physically stiffen.

“I.. may have said something about that.” She replies. “But I wouldn’t have said anything that I haven’t said to Bill’s mom or Ben’s aunt or anyone else, honey.” She adds.

“Yeah, but Richie’s dad is different, mom.” Eddie can feel his voice soften in return. She doesn’t say anything, and Eddie looks back at Richie. “What did he say to you -- just then?”

“Oh, nothing important, Eddie-bear.” She says, patting him on the head. “He was just being a menace.” He stands. “Come, on I’ll make breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh yeah,, huh


	4. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interlude -- memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HUGE warning for pedophilia in this chapter !! it doesn't develop much more than that so if pedophilia triggers you or makes you uncomfortable then just skip this chapter !**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> i wanna write more old reddie? like i know this is snippets but i always think of older reddie as the actors from the 90s movie and theyre so darn cute together !!

It’s Richie’s thirteenth birthday. Eddie knows neither of them really like thinking about that day. Of course, for different reasons they’ll never really tell each other until they’re older, at home, with friends and wine, joking about whatever. It’ll slip out and in the moment everyone will laugh. It’ll be set up in a funny way, and no-one is really that sensitive to that kind of stuff anyway. Of course, afterward, Richie will coax him away, will sit on the carpeted floor of their bedroom and hold him in his arms and whisper apologies to him. He knows by then, it’ll be such a distant memory he’ll hardly cry.

But now, as they’re having breakfast, Eddie can still think back to everything that happened that day, every word he said. He thinks of what he could have said, how he could’ve acted differently, how he could have drawn attention to himself.

Some low, trip-out song was playing. Something chill, hardly heard over the cheer of the rest of the losers and the sounds of Bill’s atari. Richie was so close to his TV Eddie would swear he wouldn’t be able to see what’s actually going on, but he seemed to be winning. Bill was on the floor next to Richie, and Stan was surely getting there. He was on the couch with Eddie, but he was leaning forward with every movie Richie made. Eddie was perfectly fine where he was, he didn’t need square eyes, thank you very much. Richie’s dad was in the armchair next to the couch. He didn’t seem to really be paying attention to Richie much. He had a cigarette in one hand, the smoke wafting up into the air. It smelled foul. Eddie remembers feeling the presence of eyes on him that whole afternoon. He remembers thinking he was being stupid. In the future, as he’s talking to his therapist, he’ll tell her that, a shaking in his voice, and she’ll give him an empathetic look and write something down in such a way that puts something through Eddie’s heart, tells him he wasn’t just being stupid.

A pixelated sound of triumph blurted from the screen, followed by Richie crowing in victory. The rest of them cheered too. Richie’s dad said nothing. They crowded around him, chanting something dumb, squeezing each other tight. Richie broke the streak by saying something even dumber, leaving the rest of them to laugh, tell him to shut up.

Eddie doesn’t like thinking about Richie’s dad. In some moments, he can’t help it. It’s like his mind drags the memory out, pushes it behind his eyes and forces him to look.

Wentworth Tozier had gotten out of his chair to answer the door, to pay the pizza man, take the pizza in. Everyone had rushed over, and he’d said something about calming down, taking a plate first. Richie had seized for a moment at his father’s loud voice, his brash tone. They sat down, at the dining table, wolfing down the cheese pizza. Eddie was sitting between Richie and his dad, and when he’s older he won’t stop thinking about how many times Wentworth’s hand had brushed his ‘accidentally’, how many times he’d clapped Eddie’s shoulder or ruffled his hair.  Every time Richie will touch his shoulder, it’ll sag like he’s sinking away from it, when Richie will ruffle his hair as a joke he’ll stop for a moment, quietly suffocate. Richie’ll find out later why he doesn’t like it, will stop altogether, will ask him when putting a hand to his face, will warn him when he’s about to put a hand on his hip. It’ll follow Eddie for years and he’ll always blame himself for not saying something sooner.

They were watching a movie on Richie’s VCR. Eddie headed off to the bathroom, and when he finished washing his hands, Wentworth was standing outside the bathroom. Eddie didn't even get time to speak.

“You’re real pretty for a boy, ya’know that?” He said. “Prettier than my wife, even.” He stepped closer, and Eddie frowned, smiled, a sense of unease curled in his gut. A heavy, warm hand sunk onto his shoulder.

“I’m surprised there isn’t some girl that’s swept you up yet, Eddie.” His hand slid down, down his arm. Eddie stiffened. The hand stopped, only just brushing Eddie’s. It trobbed weirdly, and Eddie could feel his palms prick with sweat. “Although, they’re probably too jealous to admit to liking you, I suppose.” He laughed, low, slow, and scratchy. A laugh that eddie will always equate with a dirty, perverted man. His hand was resting on Eddie’s hip now, and Eddie was sweating. Every part of the situation felt bad and wrong but he couldn’t peg why. His stomach was twisted in knots. His heart felt heavy as it thumped, again and again trying to escape his body with every quick rise and fall of his chest.

Later in his life, when he tells Richie this, after he’s been comforted and shushed and Richie’s rage has reached a peak, he’ll parade around the room, arms thrown about raving about how _“oh, Richie Tozier couldn’t be a gay boy, but his father touching up little boys?! That’s perfectly fucking fine, I suppose!”_ and Eddie will chuff a little and shush him, tell him, stop, the neighbours will think we’re having a domestic. And Richie’ll stop, laugh to himself and take Eddie in his arms and repeat _I’m sorry, I know_ over and over until Eddie’s tired.

Eddie remembers his saving grace, Richie calling out his name from the lounge.  
“Eddie, my chap!” He said in his british man voice. Wentworth’s head snapped to the hall, toward Richie’s voice. “Finish emptying your tallywhacker and come help us!” He chimed, and Eddie could see the sneer develop on Wentworth’s face. “The cause needs you!”

Eddie had looked up, fear in his eyes. Wentworth had stepped aside, and Eddie rushed into the lounge.

That was the first time Richie’s dad had touched Eddie like that, but it wasn’t the last.

 

Eddie looks down at his scrambled eggs, picks up his fork.  
He won’t tell Richie until they’re older, until they’re out of Derry and Richie’s dad can’t do anything to either of them for tattling. Eddie thinks of the day that happens all the time. He’ll think of it for years to come, think of the moment they escaped Derry. Of the moment they ran away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont expect updates to be like this at all haha


	5. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more from Richie's perspective this time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self harm ment. warning !!
> 
> anyway im going to be wrapping this up in a couple of chapters ! it was a good run babey but this isnt going beyond 10 chapters at the very most haha i do have a life  
> also for the future timeline eddie doesnt die so he and stan can be gay and married together fyi

He rubs his face, drags his hands along the front of his face. He lifts up his glasses, rubs his eyes. A pit broils low in his stomach, his insides burning and bubbling. His hands feel heavy, his body feels hot. He knows this feeling all too well.

Richie often feels sick. He often is privy to things -- be they food, bodies, roadkill -- that are rotting, that are spoiled. He’s aware of the double meaning of the word. But there are no entendres to interpret here. He always seems to be there, at the right moment, to see a mouldy loaf of bread, a body crawling with maggots, a possum infested with ants. He so often sees these images, acts as if they affect him as little as any other thing he were to see. He can’t stop to think about the gag he holds back, the thumping behind his eyes.

His stomach is so close to a pit, so open to bubble itself into a pool of blood, boil his body into a pile of viscera.

The thing is, the tendency to cut oneself comes at a price. 

Richie constantly finds himself with images that blur behind his eyes, that don’t disappear until he forgets his place completely.

Right now, as he’s staring at his eggs, he can only imagine a string of scenarios that flash behind his eyes too quick. A malformed chicken; a fork in his hand; his teeth, littered among the eggs. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind.

He picks up the eggs on his fork, puts them in his mouth, chews, swallows. Something within him strikes and he repeats his actions, again and again. Some hungry monster has manifested within him. 

He looks over at Eddie, sees him staring absently at his plate. He looks over to Eddie’s mom, back at Eddie. His hand twitches where it’s grasping his fork, and he looks up at Richie. Their eyes meet and Richie’s heart stutters, thumping twice too fast and skipping every time Eddie bats his lashes.    
They both pause.    
They both smile.

It’s as if in this moment, Richie has made up his mind. He suddenly thinks  _ this is the person I want to spend my life with.  _   
It’s as if he’s in some old movie, and Eddie’s got a soft filter and a fan blowing his hair back, like soft harps are playing him in. He smiles, a soft chuckle escaping him the moment he ducks his head.

Years from now he’ll talk about this moment, and Eddie will tear up, will blush red, will grip him tight and laugh out of nervousness. He’ll talk about that moment any time anyone asks about the rings they share, any time anyone asks  _ ‘How did you know he was the one?’  _ It’ll be the memory of Derry that’ll never fade, be the best memory of his childhood.

Richie looks up, makes eye contact with Eddie again. He opens his mouth, intending to say something. He has to look away first.

“Sorry about my dad.” Richie can’t stop the waver in his voice, tries to ignore Eddie’s mom. Eddie shifts.

“It’s not your -” It sounds like Eddie’s about to swear, and he pauses. “It’s not your fault.” He stops, his mouth open, as if he’s about to say something else, but is considering it. Richie braces for something, for some sort of secret or reassurance. “It’s fine.” is all Eddie says.

“Thanks.” Richie replies. He licks his lips, sits back a little. 

He’ll never mention it until later. It will be dead and everyone will remember, and he’ll mention it in passing and it’ll spear Richie’s heart and flood it with guilt. He’ll berate himself, he’ll apologise endlessly, pay for therapy. He’ll make sure to be mindful, to remember that he wasn’t the only one affected by his dad.

“My mom called the cops, “ Eddie adds. “By the way.” He looks at Richie for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth. “She-She said he was being a public disturbance ‘cause it was so early.”

Richie feels himself smile. It takes him a moment, but his words are sure.

“Oh,” He begins. “I’ll have to find some way to thank her, then.” He’s not even finished and Eddie’s shushing him, giggling stupidly. 

And it hits Richie like a baseball bat over the head. He looks around him, looks at Eddie, at his own hands, his own arms. And he thinks;  _ that’s it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oohhh gg leave that comment  
> my family is dying blease i need food


End file.
